


transmolecularize

by Rag



Series: trash ship week [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Communication Failure, Earth C (Homestuck), F/M, Gay Male Character, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lack of Communication, Polyamory, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Relationships, rebound dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 13:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rag/pseuds/Rag
Summary: Roxy deserves better, and you can give her better. You can.





	transmolecularize

**Author's Note:**

> day 1 of trash week: nasty miscommunications :y

Your name is Dirk Strider, and as you walk down a relatively quiet part of Central Park with your girlfriend in the last remnants of twilight, you try to convince yourself to enjoy this. You _should_ enjoy the shit out of this, both the date and the entire arrangement. Roxy is fucking great, and you love talking to her. She’s smart and kind and she gets you out of your shell in a way that no one else ever has. She’s like the inverse of you in that way - by which you mean she has functioning social skills instead of being a severely depressed self-designated pariah of humanity. That and, Jake really wants nothing to do with you anymore. But that’s secondary to her, of course, completely, what kind of piece of shit friend _and_ boyfriend would you be if you even _cared_ about him like that anymore? Probably an even worse piece of shit friend and boyfriend than you already are, which is saying a lot. She deserves better, and you can give her better. You _can_.

She and Callie are still together, and both of them are thrilled with this arrangement. Callie is off doing space shit a lot of the time, shit that Roxy can’t be involved in for complicated temporal dynamic reasons, something about her being from another universe, something about potentially ripping apart the fabric of space-time and creating a vacuous black hole the likes of which could devour all of existence. It was a small chance, but a real chance, so she stays behind as Callie pops off for weeks at a time, unable to be contacted. The two of them are so fucking stable in their relationship that Callie is legitimately _thrilled_ that you and Roxy do this when she’s away. You are not jealous. You’re happy for them.  You’re happy to be a part of this. You absolutely do not feel like a walking, talking dildo for a pair of bisexual girls. _Fuck_. Focus, dude.

The two of you are walking through Central Park, and as the light from the sun fades it’s replaced by tentative little yellow glows of horny fireflies. This date was her idea. She made sure to schedule it at night so that it would be considerably less populated than it would be during the day. She knows that you just can’t handle that many people, that you shut down and go blank with the need to exit the situation as quickly as fucking possible. Even so, there are still some stragglers, mostly couples, looking at the first of the night’s stars on blankets, or smoking cigarettes against a gently crumbling brick building. You would rather they weren’t here. Some of them look your way. Some of them point. _Holy shit, is that them? Oh my god. Yeah, literally. Quiet, he can hear you! They’re on a date, don’t disturb them._

“I love looking at the stars,” she says. You will yourself to focus on her instead. “They’re so different from the ones I grew up with.”

You look up. You never paid much attention to the stars before, so you don’t know if that holds true for you.

“Something I think they’re changing every night,” she says. “I mean, it’s possible, right?”

“Unlikely, at least not in any way that would be identifiable as such without equipment. Astral events happen frequently enough, but it would take decades for visible repercussions to hit Earth.”

“Yeah? I didn’t know you were into space, Dirk. You should tell me about it.”

She squeezes your hand.

“I’m not, really. That might be the only thing I know about it.”

“Got a funny feeling you’re selling yourself short. But. This is kinda silly, but.” You can hear the tone in her voice, and you know what she’s getting at before she says it. “It’s romantic, isn’t it? In a fucked-up way. It’s like the movies we used to watch. We.” She trips on her words, and her voice gets weak. “I mean. Me and him, sorry. We would watch them. And now, you- well, fuck. Did you watch movies with- nevermind.” She takes a minute. Breathes deeply. When she talks again, she’s a little too peppy, and you know she’s putting it on, but you let it go. “You wanna get out of here? I think it’s high time we blow this popsicle joint.”

She never used to talk about the old universe before, but she’s been slipping up and mentioning it more and more ever since the game ended. You can’t fucking imagine how awful it must have been for her to lose everyone she cared about like that, and then to pop over here with people who were _almost_ the same, who knew a different version of her and were shaped by completely different experiences. And now that the game is over, and when Callie is away, you can tell she doesn’t have enough to distract herself from it.

You wish you knew what to say. You wish you could make it better somehow. But the words always die in your throat, because they’re pathetic and useless in the face of that much shit.

(and maybe, you hate the way it makes you feel like you _can’t_ call it quits even if you wanted to. not like this, not when she’s seen so much and sacrificed so much for all of you. because you are, and always have been, the most selfish piece of shit in the universe)

 “Yeah, let’s go to your place.”

She turns to you and smiles. The two of you lift off into the sky. Some pretty inebriated voices scream some weird shit at you ( _I knew it, hallelujah_ and _420 praise it_ stick out among the rest) until you’re far enough in the sky that you can’t make it out. You hate when people notice you, but you know you’ll never see them again or have to interact with them. Godhood has made most of you untouchable to the general populous, both in terms of your status and your literal ability to fly away from any interaction you don’t want to deal with.  You absolutely appreciate it, but know most of your friends kind of hate it. Roxy, for one, is not a fan of the distance. Roxy seems to like interacting with everyone she comes across. For example: tonight, Roxy laughs as the people below cheer, and hollers back at them.

It doesn’t take long to make it to her house. You know where tonight is going. Dates usually end like this. But maybe she’ll change her mind at the last minute, and just want to cuddle or watch some trashy reality TV show instead. It’s happened before.

She locks the door behind you, even though there is a 0% chance that anyone who might break into the house could possibly give either of you any real trouble. Leads you to her incredibly tasteful and spacious living room, complete with surround sound speakers. She does something with her phone and soft music starts playing. Well, soft in volume. She has a real affinity for the most obnoxious kind of dubstep and pop-rap, which you have to admit you find endearing. She sits down on the couch and pats the space next to her, giving you a look that tells you that movies and cuddles are not in her plans for tonight, at least not until after. This.

Which is good. You’re happy with this. Roxy is an incredibly attractive girl. Everyone says so, and you can totally see it. And she’s incredibly fucking attracted to you. That much has become obvious over the last few months. And before then, too, but you could have chalked that up to kiddie shit, if the two of you hadn’t rekindled it again. You were all high on that stupid trickster shit again, at Rose’s and Kanaya’s wedding. Jake had absolutely nothing to say to you, which was _fine_ , completely fine, because the two of you are different people with different needs and-

Roxy, this mental tangent is about Roxy, and how the two of you started doing this. Right. You were all high on that weird cherub lollipop, and you were more than a little drunk on the full bar that Rose had so kindly provided for her guests, in addition to having smoked some of the weed Dave brought from some dispensary, because you knew from experience that it takes you more than the average dose to feel anything in the way of inebriation. In retrospect, it may have been overkill.

Roxy had put her hand on your thigh and said some silly, flirty joke about how handsome you were, and that some guy will be lucky to have you. And you, in your infinite inebriated wisdom, said something embarrassingly stupid about how. How you would be down to fuck her, basically. Put more gently than that, but just barely. The only thing that put a pause on what followed was your brief memory of Callie, that Roxy was dating her. Roxy quickly informed you that the two of them were open, and the rest was fucked-up history.

You had enjoyed it, that night. Which is a big data point in favor of giving this a chance, over and over and over and over. Because it, apparently, is not completely impossible for you to enjoy having sex with her. Demonstrably. As evidenced by that night.

There’s always the possibility, lingering in the back of your mind, that maybe it was just the drugs, combined with looking at _him_ all fucking night and thinking about the time you spent together. But you don’t dwell on it, because you’ve dug this well far too deep to turn back now.

She runs her hand down your arm and gives you that look, soft and longing. “Come here, babe.”

You kiss her. She leans into it, you feel her go soft and relaxed against you until she pulls back.

“I got so hot in the park. Thinking about what we’d do tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m fuckin’ dirty as shit, thinkin’ that stuff in public. But I’m so wet.”

“That’s so hot, babe,” you hear yourself say, and you run your hand down her side slowly. She shivers.

And things progress, as they usually do. You get on your knees and pull down her skirt and eat her out a good half hour, at least. Five of her long remixes pass before she comes, arching and moaning your name. And you don’t spend too much time thinking about how much you’d rather she had a dick that she made you choke on instead. You see the thought, wave hello, and let it pass, because _this_ is what’s here, _this_ is what you’re working with, and _this_ is attached to your best fucking friend in the universe so you’re going to make it fucking work. And it’s not completely intolerable, by a long shot, because you enjoy a challenge and making her feel as good as possible is a game you set for yourself.

You unzip your pants and work your cock towards the end of it, because you’re not nearly as hard as you should be, and she’s going to want you to fuck her. She does. She asks for it. Breathy whispers and she spreads her legs, wet with spit and her salty slick.

You tell her to turn over. You fucking hate yourself for it, but it’s easier this way. And it’s fine, no, it’s fine, you’re just a guy with a preference for doggy, it’s fine. It’s not like doing it from behind is inherently demeaning to women. Roxy is confident in her sexuality, this isn’t demeaning, and the angle is better like this.

(excuses. you don’t like looking at her soft face and her feminine features and you can avoid it if she’s not on her back, looking at you with those pleading eyes and crying out with her too-high voice)

And things progress, further, again. She’s soft all over, inside and out. So soft. Her… She’s wet, _so_ wet and soft and open. You keep your hands on her hips and try not to give into the urges that tell you to hold her down and choke her and _make_ her yours, all this weird dark sadistic shit that always threatens to bubble up whenever you fuck. You’re pretty damn sure the hardest she’s gone from vanilla is light bondage and you don’t want to horrify her with the shit your mind comes up with. You keep it to yourself. Instead, you tell her how gorgeous she is.

Maybe it’s a _sign_ of something amiss in the mind of Dirk Strider that your sense of time and action gets funny whenever you have sex with her. You really only feel like yourself again after it’s long past, and the two of you are shooting the shit and cuddling while you watch a movie on her bed.

You acknowledge this thought, and let it pass, because there’s nothing you want to do with it. Because Roxy is your best friend. Your girlfriend. The closest person you have, and you don’t want to be alone anymore. But more importantly, you love her. You _do_ , you absolutely do, really. And she deserves to have everything from you, if you can give it to her. And you can. You have to. You don’t know how, exactly, you’ll be able to keep giving her what she needs. But you have to, because she deserves it. How hard can it be to just figure out how to tap into what you felt that night? You’ll figure it out. And when you do, you’ll both be so glad you did. And maybe she’ll never even have to know about the six months you spent lying to her about it.


End file.
